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Birdwhistle Tearoom management has been informed that one of the waiters complained his tip had been stolen from a table that had not yet been bussed, by an unknown perpetrator who dined in the restaurant Saturday night. A typically busy night forced him to get to the table late, after after he had seen a large wad of cash being put on the tray after the bill had been paid, when while leaving, the table host thanked and congratulated him on his perfect presentation of a flaming baked Alaska. Several groups were seated in close proximity to the table. It might have been anyone from those surrounding tables, all seemingly animated and having a good time with little care about their surroundings except for the usual titter and din of evaluations of any one group of men by all the others, which is the necessary ritual assessment of potential tricks for the evening. All gay men have these discussions with their pals. "What about that one?" "Nice face, but did you see that horrible manicure when he lifted his glass? I bet his toenails are dirty", etc., etc. Then the snappy comeback: "It's not his toes I'll be be sucking." This night, the assembled members of the Ten Commandments Club, dining together with their applicant, took note of the anguish of the waiter whose tip their tablemate had just nicked. One of their number suggested to the thief that he should approach the waiter, offer his condolences, and invite him back to their elegantly appointed rented clubhouse in Aluminum City. The plan all went pretty successfully. Members are all smooth talkers, appear above suspicion, and are all devastatingly good looking. Who in his right mind would say no to such an invitation? He's lucky this wasn't a 6th commandment night. And The Ten Commandments Club has its newest member, who, now richer by fifty dollars, stood in line to screw the waiter once again.

To be continued... There have always been secret groups, societies, meetings and affiliations of men. The origin of Loveless Lodge was rooted on the principle that a location should exist for a clientele which sought a place of guaranteed near-anonymity and discretion, as envisioned and fulfilled by founders Edgar Loveless and Sinjin Birdwhistle. At Loveless Motel, a certain group of Mauve Tavern regulars also count themselves as members of The Ten Commandments Club. Not advertised among the Tavern's general clientele, its associates do not generally congregate there as one might at a clubhouse, but generally clandestinely book a tin can in Aluminum City now that it is up and running but in prior years took a suite in town for the club's specific purposes, even while maintaining simultaneous bookings at Loveless Motel, in order to maintain the discreet nature of the club's business. Membership is generally held by The Mauve's more well-heeled professional clientele - young men are a rarity within its fellowship, given the life experiences necessary to meet its rules, which are more probably found in a well-seasoned gentlemen. Long conversations initiated by a member with an interesting looking prospect might start at a barstool in the tavern. Then with a predetermined signal given by one member to another nearby, indicating certain conditions have been met, a move to a more private table would occur, and the two would be joined by the accomplice. This method has been perfected over the years, and is adhered to by those participating in acquiring new members. A prospect has no way of knowing he is being interviewed or about to be hooked. By necessity, things will generally progress to a more horizontal approach elsewhere. It is quite amazing when one thinks about it, that any current prospect will come from the pool of select gentlemen who have already been subjected to the elimination round faced by all Mauve Tavern customers, who were able to successfully spell "Ferragamo." It's also true that, not by happenstance, each member is devastatingly good looking,(however subjective a judgement that might be) practically on the level of popular matinee idols. In fact, there have been two members who attained that level of fame, flirtatiously inviting personal upheaval; a fellow member not in that specific category of fame had even said in conversation while accompanying his idol to one of his premieres, while they were seated together in the dark, watching the actor's flickering performance as he dashed across the screen in an open shirt, the camera and lighting catching the beading sweat on his hirsute chest in his latest pirate epic, "My, but can you even imagine losing all of that?" The answer was a curt "That kind of talk can get a man killed" which earned a sniggering retort of "Maybe so, but you know it wouldn't count." It's numbers, by rule, are only increased by one annually , though some years no worthy postulant is found. There are those reunions during which several of its members convene at Loveless Motel though the norm is that a smaller number might be in attendance for an initiation. Group members must have broken each of the Ten Commandments. Members meet annually to initiate an inductee, by witnessing the last sin remaining on the man's list, in progress, the group then celebrating his accomplishment by indulging in acts of physical intimacy, generally recorded on film. This year, the candidate's remaining sin is theft. Coincidentally, no opportunity has arisen to witness a violation of the 6th commandment, a condition which has therefore been verifiably fulfilled by all club members, though in its meetings, the subject of the possibility of such an event has been debated, and not ruled out.

Recent victims of the jockstrap thief who's been menacing Loveless Motel meet together at "Juices," the health nut juice bar at The Tubs in the basement of the Bunkhouse. Gabby B. Lyon, the juice jerk there gets their attention as he tells them about the fragment of a mumbled conversation he overheard between a couple of men the other night. Just out of sight, he couldn't tell who they were, but clearly heard "It's YOU!" "Ordinarily I hear nothing but it was such a quiet night and very few guys. I know that new hotel dick was here because he sat here and had a carrot juice and said he wanted to pump me for some information. I told him I couldn't imagine what information he thought might be worth pumping me for, but that my shift ends at 6AM. He told me he'd be gone by then but would pin me down another time, finished his juice and headed for the showers. I'm pretty sure it was his voice. About half an hour after that, another guy came in, sat on the same stool - I recognized him as the Doc, wearing a jockstrap that was a little too big on him - go figure! He gave a lecture last year in the Grab Basket Conference Room - something like "You and your Dick". It was pretty thorough...he demonstrated and asked us all to join in. While he was drinking his carrot juice I reminded him about that lecture. He gave me a nice tip, right in this jar here that says "TIPS" " Gabby then makes a grand gesture, lifting the jar in front of his customers, his head cocked and eyebrows raised, saying but not saying "Fill 'er up, motherfuckers". One of the smart-aleck gobblers says "I forgot my wallet" and they all wander off tittering "Oh, Mary" this and "Oh, Mary" that... "You can't get a word in edgewise with that little queen. I don't think he took a fucking breath the whole fucking time! Next time, I swear I'm gonna pull a quarter outta my ass for that jar"

In a stunning development overnight, House Detective Harry Biggerstaff writes in his private journal that he has apprehended the jockstrap thief who has been plaguing The Bunkhouse for the past month, He recounts that he had decided to award himself some personal R and R at the Tubs on what he thought would be a slow night, which since assuming his position as Loveless Motel's hotel dick has been one of the perks he most enjoyed. Most of all, the ritual of slowly removing his clothes for any onlookers in the locker room, stowing his duds neatly away and producing from his old ditty bag, the container he was never without on a night he knew he would not be home, a toothbrush and his old worn jockstrap into which he changed, barely containing its contents; to walk around in it was a performance he relished, knowing it was like bait to anyone present, particularly to those shy voyeurs he could later approach. "I see you enjoyed watching me in the locker room" was an opening that took most men by surprise, but paid off in results just the same. And so this quiet evening was no exception. Though in the dark he couldn't quite see his stalker's features, he sensed someone was watching, and proceeded with his show. His next step as always was to walk through the hallway of private enclosures to see if any doors were open, to view any men pleasuring themselves or others, and in the absence of any obvious opportunities, head back to the locker area, slowly remove his jock, place it on a hook, stretching as he did so, for the added enjoyment of anyone watching, with his arms above his head and back arched so that his still-flaccid cock dangled momentarily before it began to come to life, and then he would turn to step into the nearby shower. This night, in the quiet semi-dark he could hear the squeak of another man's bare feet behind him as the hot water cascaded down his chest, his back to the hook on the wall, the water finding its way down his ass to the floor, making a splat sound as he soaped up. He's then startled as there's a deep intake of another man's breath with a snort sound, and whipping round, nearly loosing his balance on the wet tile, he sees a naked man with a jockstrap over his head, holding the crotch cup fabric to his nose with one hand , stroking his fist-wrapped meat with his other, while exhibiting the wide open eyes of one who's been caught red-handed. "It's YOU!" Blurting and dumbfounded, Harry stands there soaked and dripping as the man grins back, begins to chuckle out loud, and between chortles and guffaws, Dr. John Long manages to gush out "I confess!" To which Harry then says, barely containing his own upwelling laughter "I see you enjoyed watching me in the locker room!" TO BE CONTINUED....

Look behind you! Reports are surfacing in the gossip mills across the Loveless Motel empire, amidst a rash of new missing jockstraps. Bunkhouse men just barely miss the guy in the act - a shadowy figure whose actions in silhouette suggest a heist in progress - a dick imprint and a fingered signature on the window of the steam room of The Tubs, a cryptic note left on a bench in the lockerroom there.....

Seen here relaxing in his Aluminum City quarters at Loveless Motel, Harry Biggerstaff takes solace amidst his antique porcelain collection and vents his frustration to us. "I feel like I'm in a very loose hole up to my nuts, and no way am I gonna get what I want", says he, "about this damned jock strap theft - where is the guy? I'm supposed to be this magical new Hotel Dick, and I'm coming up with bupkis! People don't steal jocks and sell them on the same property and then just walk away! Who is this guy?!" He's done many interviews; poked his business where some might say it didn't belong, and prodded what he thought were all the right spots, and just before he thought he might just hit it and be done, he had to pull out and try another lead. He'd gone cold. His new friend, Luke Atma Peterson, even assisted, and equally frustrated to a point of going down one bottomless hole after another, suggested Harry just lay lay off for a while and go have some fun while getting to know the Loveless property - so that's what he's doing. Anticipating Spring, we're finding him in the great outdoors, enjoying nature, seeking harmony with woodland creatures. Even so, he says he can still smell a ripe jock at 10 paces and he will get his man.

Recent events have forced the management team to seek the services of an investigative professional. Crime is on the rise at Loveless Motel, as evidenced by this candid shot of a perpetrator fleeing the scene, thought to be a possible jockstrap thief, caught on celluloid by ace Shutter Bug Camera Shop photographer "Snap" Wadmacher, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time (so he says).Therefore, effective immediately we announce we are taking applications to fill the position of a Hotel Dick, to receive a generous compensation package with dental benefits, and a Bank of America Christmas Club account, as well as private living quarters at Aluminum City (if so desired). The successful applicant who declines the living quarters will not be further compensated to offset the cost of seeking accommodations elsewhere. With the sudden uptick of petty crimes being committed against the business and guests, time is of the essence in filling the position. In-person interviews will be conducted after a review of mailed applications. Good luck to all the aspiring Dicks out there!

Guests of the Bunkhouse have been lodging complaints for a few days now regarding stolen jock straps and jeans that have gone missing when using the communal showers there. Cowboys over at The Stables can really work up a sweat what with showing city boys the ropes and all, and it's just a natural thing for a cowboy to want to lather up with his buds while hanging his duds in a place they ought to be secure. The mystery is deepened and particularly concerning, as some of the cowboys have been working on ripening their jocks for months, and the prospect of going into town looking for new jockstraps doesn't thrill anyone except maybe the salesmen in the JCPenney or Sears men's clothing departments, though some of the cowboys don't complain too much if they get hold of a townie who wants to provide a personal fitting.

In a surprise overnight freeze in normally temperate January at Loveless Motel, the pipes in the poorly insulated laundry room have burst, and one of the washers froze mid-cycle, loaded with jockstraps and denim. As a result, management is taking bids for the job in a one-day frenzy of interviews. May the best plumber win! As an aside, the collector whose jocks were frozen admits to a confidant that instead of his disco outfit, he mistakenly put his entire piss-and-cum-stained haul into the wash, thereby ruining the intrinsic value of the collection, rendering it worthless as sniff-bate material. He relates that he had spent days raiding the locker room of the Bunkhouse and had some prize specimens that were still damp from recently ejaculated spooge and drip. "But I look on the bright side," he said; "I'm here for another week, and as long as I don't get caught there's plenty more where they came from"